Other Tales
by Lalaithe
Summary: Collecting together short stories and scenes about Baldur's Gate. New Story: Children
1. Introduction

~Introduction~

This is a little collection of shorter tales about Baldur's Gate, gathered from ideas that pop up while writing other stories. Hopefully it will keep expanding. Most will be AU, so if something doesn't make sense feel free to blame me! Feedback is welcome as always.

The stories are rated 'T', so expect some violence and language. Thanks for reading!


	2. Montaron: To Crown a Thief

Author's Note: This is a little story about Montaron's thieving days. It contains strong language and some risqué humour for which I humbly apologise. Montaron is owned by Bioware and I take no responsibility for him whatsoever.

...

The halfling looked at his hands folded in front of him. He stretched the short yet nimble fingers, thinking his ragged fingernails weren't much cleaner than the stained table they rested on. Been a few months, maybe time for a bath. The rough chair was human-sized and his shoulders barely rose above the wood. Normally he'd have been annoyed at the situation but he didn't need to feel the cold sweat trickling off his body to know his seating arrangements weren't the worst of his problems.

How long were they going to keep him here? It'd been hours now, he reckoned, just him sitting alone in that queer little cell. They'd pulled him out from the holding tanks where he'd been munching straw for lack of any other nourishment, the big fellows already catching the rats that patrolled the place. He thought they were taking him to the gallows. He'd expected that, puffed up his bravado for the main event. But now he was here and he had no idea what to think.

...

Bloody hells, why'd he have to do it? It seemed like a good idea at the time. His 'mate' Zeke said it was a sterling job. Easy in, easy out. That noble had a coronet studded with gems, some old relic he'd pulled out of a tomb somewheres. Montaron wasn't easy about the idea of lifting something that came from some old king; what if it was cursed? Zeke just laughed though and that pissed him off. Said he reckoned the king might be happy after all for them taking it off the one what stole it in the first place. Montaron saw the sense in that argument, and he agreed.

Not that he'd admit it but he needed the coin. That damned nag tripped and fell in the last race taking all his hopes for a comeback with her. Now half the bookies in the Keep were after his oily hide, and they weren't known for their polite manner. Slitting purse-strings was a waste of time; it was either this or do a runner.

But he was always careful, was Montaron, and insisted on scoping the place beforehand. Zeke was right, it did seem easy. Them pot-bellied guards were easily distracted by a little ruse he arranged, and he snickered watching them eyeing up old Nell. That good old tart was always up for a bit of fun and she only asked for a drink in return. There didn't seem to be much else to it—slip over the garden wall, up the drainpipe and into that little window that Zeke assured him was always open.

Of course Montaron would have to do the real work. Zeke pled that bum knee he got in the army kept him from climbing, but the halfling knew it was just cause he couldn't be asked to risk his own neck even for such a prize. In truth Montaron didn't mind. He trusted himself and no one else. He'd done his share of housebreaking and despite his slightly pudgy frame he was strong and agile as a cat. He could get into that window, no problems.

Two nights later they made a go. Nell learned the noble and his wife were going to a party that night and it seemed like the ideal time. They skulked round back, keeping an eye out for guards or anyone else who might call the alarm. Montaron slid behind a barrel in the alleyway, silently cursing the yellow moon as it slipped out from behind the clouds. Somewhere a tom yowled, declaring his claim over the lady-cats to the neighbourhood. A loud coughing startled him but the old drunken cook wandered past into the night, singing a song of long ago.

At last it was quiet and Zeke hoisted him up. Montaron slipped and struggled but pulled himself over the wall, dropping down lightly into some flowers. _Sorry, lady_, he thought wryly. Keeping to the shadows he crept towards the house, largely dark in the night. The kitchen door was open though and light streamed out. Montaron paused, watching a fat old housekeeper flirting shamelessly with an equally ancient groomsman over a bottle of wine that didn't look like the sort servants normally drank. _Good on ye_, he thought, making his way to the drainpipe.

The iron pipe seemed sturdy so he shimmied his way up to the window, but not without a little grunt or two. Damn but he was getting too old for this. Zeke proved true to his word though and the window was open.

He slipped inside. The chamber was dark and it took him a moment to work out what room he'd entered. The bath chamber. Perfect. Too bad he didn't have more time, the idea of leaving a ring round the marble basin gave him a chuckle. Maybe that could be his calling card? Then take a roll in the dirt the next day—_it weren't me, Captain, I swear it!_

He forced himself though to focus on the task at hand. The noble was said to keep the coronet in his study on that floor, shouldn't be much of a trick to get there. Carefully he opened the door a crack and slipped out a mirror to check the hall. The coast was clear. He was about to step out when a young maid suddenly appeared into view. Montaron swore quietly and ducked back into the chamber.

He had no idea where the girl was headed but that old burglar's instinct told him to hide. A basket was his only shot and he ducked inside, covering himself up with the damp linens and pulling the lid back over his head, and not a moment too soon. The girl entered the chamber carrying a candle, humming a tune sweetly to herself. Montaron watched her through the holes in the basket. Not bad, he thought. Red hair and a nice, firm backside. He always did like redheads. She bent over with some task and Montaron grinned, forgetting his situation for a moment. Too soon she departed though and Montaron forced himself to draw a deep breath and think of Nell. He waited a minute just to be safe and was about to emerge when he heard the door open again.

The maid came back in, without her candle for some reason. In the dark he heard her humming another tune, a little duskier than last time. It was throatier and he liked it. In a moment he heard the sound of running water and he began to feel sweat creeping up, worrying the owners had come home sooner than expected. His only chance was to stay still as possible and pray they didn't empty the laundry basket.

Soon though he heard the water stop and the unmistakable sound of clothing falling to the tiled floors. He peered out the holes, wishing he could see what was going on. The maid kept humming to herself and with interest he heard her slipping into the pool. Naughty maid, taking a bath in the mistress' tub? Zeke would never believe this. _Light the candle, girl!_

"Where's my muffin?" A voice suddenly called from the doorway.

"Right here, sweetie pie," the maid answered in a strangely thick way.

Before Montaron had time to think a light flashed into the darkness, and peeking through the holes all excitement vanished like a puff of smoke. Adorning the tub was none other than the housekeeper, bare as the day the gods made her, her old string-bean lover striding into the room like a randy knight into his lady's chamber. Montaron drew a towel over his eyes, shutting them tight and thinking he'd give his right arm for a bit of wax for his ears. His old gran always said Yondalla'd punish him for his ways but he just laughed. As years went on though he began to wonder, and now he was sure. He'd fallen off the drainpipe and landed square in the Nine Hells.

_Gods_..._that's just—wrong._

Eventually his ordeal was over. By that point he was scared to climb out of his basket, worrying the page might come in and give the family dog a bath next. But the house stayed quiet and he forced himself once again from his hiding place.

He slipped down the hall, sliding his mirror under the doorframes to see inside the locked rooms. Finally he found the one he sought and after running a careful hand around for signs of traps he tripped the lock and stepped inside.

The study was a large room, with moonlight from the open curtains illuminating the fancy mahogany furniture and the walls covered with books. Montaron couldn't care less about the decor though, instead padding silently over the carpet towards a glass case. There, resting on a silken pillow was the coronet. Montaron paused and licked his lips, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The jewels on the crown were the size of goose eggs, the biggest he'd come across. They glistened flirtatiously in the moonlight but he knew better than to approach. Zeke had underestimated the size of the prize, a rare thing in his circle—usually it went the other way. And Montaron knew well enough that anything that flash would be guarded by a hells lot more than glass.

_Ah, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained._

The carpet was tacked down so he couldn't search underneath for traps, but he had an idea. Going to a bookcase he pulled off an armful of heavy tomes, and tossed one onto the floor near the glass case before ducking quickly behind a sofa. It landed with a thump but most of its noise was muffled by the thick carpet. Cautiously he craned his neck out. Nothing. He tried another book and another, with the same result. Carefully he approached the case, following the trail the discarded books had marked for him.

The case was locked, naturally, but he still found no signs of traps. Were these the thickest nobles in Faerun? Not his problem. Making a convenient step out of the books he took out some tiny tools from his pouch and deftly worked the fine lock, soon hearing that gratifying click.

The coronet was bare to his grasp, taunting him like a ripe bar wench. Still he hesitated, mentally adding up the weight of the various gems and metal. He pulled a sack of pebbles from his pouch, taking some out, balancing it, then thoughtfully adding a few. When he was satisfied he gradually replaced the coronet with the bag, his nervous hands shaking a little in spite of his experience. The coronet broke free from its perch and he seized it in his hands.

_Hells, yes!_ he thought, examining the jewel and still not believing his luck. It was an awesome piece. If they managed to fence the stones him and Zeke could buy all of Zhentil Keep between them. Him and Zeke? To the hells with him! Montaron could take this and live like a king someplace where the sun was hot and the ladies were hotter.

As the greedy thoughts flowed through his mind it occurred to him just how—_sparkly_ the thing was. The facets glowed like the stars as he moved it slightly in the moonlight. He couldn't keep his eyes off it. He was going to be a king, why not start now? He raised the coronet and placed it on his head.

_Yowww!_

The moment it touched his brow the coronet seized him, constricting like a viper around his skull. The metal grew hot, biting into his skin. He tugged and tugged, clawing into his flesh with his fingers but the crown wouldn't come off. He shouted and cried, rolling around on the floor in agony. In his pain he barely noticed when the door flew open and lights and excited voices came charging into the room.

...

Montaron looked up hearing the clatter and clank of heavy locks falling open. A man in black robes entered, followed by two guards. The halfling tried to put on his best surly face but even he melted seeing the symbol on the man's chest.

_Oh...shite..._

Suddenly it hit him—no ordinary noble would have something like that crown hanging about the place. He'd barely noticed the books at the time, but the titles came flowing back, all primers in the dark arts. He'd robbed a Zhentarim! He fought against the urge to soil himself and wished they'd taken him to the gallows instead.

The man bent over him, regarding him in a queer fashion while Montaron mentally ran through the list of tortures he'd heard of the Zhents using on those unlucky enough to cross them. Since coming to the Keep Montaron'd done everything he could to avoid crossing those bastards; he generally had enough trouble on his hands as it was.

"So you are the little thief who thought to remove the crown of King Waleden from my possession? _Hurmph_," the man snorted. "I take it you have never read of its curse, that all who hold it and are judged unworthy shall be punished accordingly? No? Well, never mind. As it happens, I can make use of you, thief..."

_Hells, here it comes..._

The man towered over him, fingering his amulet and staring at Montaron with a black expression. Unexpectedly though he sat down at the table and rubbed his temple with a sigh.

"Listen to me, thief, and listen well. I have a certain...problem, of a delicate nature. Normally I would not consider using a strange rogue in such a way—no, I'd have you fed bit by bit to the otyughs, but this is different. You see..."

He paused again as if trying to find the best way to explain his situation. Montaron just stared at the man, mouth slightly agape.

"It is...my mother."

"I ain't laid a finger on yer mam, gov'nor," Montaron said anxiously, raising his hands.

"Do you think I would be sitting here talking with you if you had?" the man said with a glare. "Be silent. No, more accurately it is my _brother_. Not long ago, you see, he made a rather foolish mistake of combining essence of dragon breath with powdered rubies and grave dust—and every fool knows you cannot mix dragon's breath with grave dust! He must have thought the rubies would neutralise the poison which occurs when those ingredients are combined, but clearly he thought wrong. Needless to say, ever since he was pulled from the mist he has been...a little mad. We tolerated it at first, but since he turned my mother's beloved little dog into an undead monstrosity the situation has become unbearable. Mind you, that dog was an unholy creature before, but still..."

Montaron stared at the man with wide eyes, and he coughed and continued.

"Yes, in such situations the poor unfortunate would normally be locked away or disposed of, but my mother cannot bear the idea of her darling boy coming to such an end and she pled her case to the highest levels of our organisation. She has some influence and they heeded her pleas, but my brother is still a problem that must be dealt with."

"You want me to stick 'im?" Montaron spoke hopefully, thinking in the only direction he knew.

"No, you fool!" the man bellowed, and the halfling jumped. "Just the opposite. I want you to take care of him."

Montaron cocked his head and the man sighed irritably.

"Protect him, look after him, you contracted idiot. I've developed a potion that will keep his sanity intact, but unfortunately it only lasts for a few hours. I need someone on hand to make sure he takes the draught at regular intervals."

"Right...but why not—"

"You're asking why not just have a servant do it. A fair question. Unfortunately, when my brother doesn't get his medicine he can be rather...difficult, and neither my mother nor myself wish to risk sacrificing any of our own households. Not after what happened to her footman, _ugh._ Did he truly have to choose necromancy? Regardless, an outsider is clearly needed. For you see, his madness has become enough of an embarrassment that the powers that be have decided that he needs to disappear for awhile in the hopes he may recover some of his faculties. As such he has been reassigned, and he must have a keeper to travel with him."

"Right," Montaron said again. He could still barely believe his ears, but maybe this wasn't such a bad gig after all. It could get him out of the city at least. "Where's he got to go?"

The man paused.

"Baldur's Gate."

_"Bal—"_ Montaron began, his mouth falling open again. "Ain't that near Waterdeep? That's on the other side of the bleedin' world! It's all frontier out there!"

"Quite," the man replied, "which is precisely why it has been chosen. Of course, if you prefer you can stay here. I'm certain we might be able to make you a little—taller."

Montaron gulped, knowing well enough what he meant.

"Nope, I'm good."

"Excellent. Now, you might be thinking that once you are on the road it might be more convenient to leave my brother at the wayside. I would reconsider any such plans, for know this—whatever fate befalls my brother, you will experience threefold. Although I am certain you seem like the...trustworthy sort, I will still need something of a guarantee. Before you step out this door, you will swear a geas of fealty to my brother. Do you understand what a geas is?"

"Yeah," Montaron said, taken aback. The sweat was starting to flow again.

"Good. Now, would you like to meet your future travelling companion?"

He snapped his fingers and a guard ventured outside, returning with a tall, middle-aged wizard who smiled strangely at Montaron.

"Xzar," the man spoke clearly, "I'd like you to meet your new friend, Montaron."

"_Monty!_" the wizard exclaimed happily. "Positively delightful. And he practically fits in my pocket! How convenient. This holiday is going to be such _fun!"_

He clapped his hands and did a little dance right there in the cell. Montaron stared at him, then lowered his head and groaned.


	3. Xan: The Bay

This might be called an 'atmosphere' piece; it started as a writing exercise but I thought it was interesting. Inspired by Kulyok's Xan mod and The Smiths "Pretty Girls Make Graves", and Bioware of course.

...........

The bay again. She she loved the water. She loved watching the cascading diamonds rippling on the surface of the sea, or something akin to that dreadful one-copper poetry she was fond of. Did she never notice the stink? This was far from a pristine beach, the flat sands reeking of seaweed and the even worse smells of the city. Why did she always want to come here, was it possible she found it romantic? The breeze whipped his long hair into his face and he scowled looking out over the water that had retreated with the tides into the distance.

.......

He knew what she wanted that night she cajoled him from his studies to go walking on the sands. He could see it lighting her eyes, feel it in the way she laced her fingers with his. He'd finally admitted that he cared for her, said more than he should. Not for anything would he relate just how much he'd come to care though, much less admit to the more unrefined feelings she'd stirred in him. But she knew just the same. She'd catch his low eyes watching her form and smile in that way of hers. And he knew what she wanted next; it was natural. Words were beauty but her kind wanted proof. An illustration.

Why had he gone with her to the beach? Did he think he'd somehow turn into another man? Much as he wanted to he couldn't let go. He'd never been able to just let go. She'd spoken softly as she directed them to a secluded spot, telling little jokes and stories in a vain attempt to lighten his mood. She looked laughing into his eyes and her mouth twisted regarding his sombre expression.

_"The son of sorrow smiles for no one."_

She'd taunted him with that name before, some line heard somewhere best forgotten. He bristled again in the face of it. He smiled, of course he could smile! Just because he didn't walk around with a foolish grin on his face…no, she was teasing him. He fumed on the surface but secretly he'd always treasured her little jokes, for it meant she was paying attention. He'd seen the way the other men looked at her, and he'd seen her looking back. But for some reason she still chose him. Perhaps she'd just been drawn to the one who seemed to pay her no heed? He always scorned men who turned to jelly at the sound of a woman's laugh; when did he become one of those dancing fools?

Not that he danced. No—he steeled himself, did everything he could to keep his feelings at bay. Now though she just tugged at the sleeve of his robe, whispering to him his own words on the brevity of life—the same words, with such a different sentiment. Everything was so simple for her. She wasn't like him, and he knew it. Yet for all the chaos, all the pain, it still came down to one thing. One thing, and he couldn't even let himself have that.

But why not? Why did he always need to be the one who put duty above all else, who had to consider and re-consider every option put before him as though the fate of the universe depended on his every act? A pointless question. He knew why. The answer hung heavy from his belt, and he could almost feel it pulling him down into the sands. But as her hands slid down his waist he knew, too, that it was often just a comfortable excuse. Even without the blade he would never have been a man of action; nature never intended him to be that way.

He'd tried to get her to understand but his words fell on deaf ears. All she knew was now, this moment. She didn't want to wait. She couldn't see the reasons. He didn't want to see the reasons. But in spite of the stars and the crashing waves he couldn't make them go away.

He'd watched with regret her flying back to the inn. How much of his reluctance had been for genuine reasons, or rather from an instinctive desire to protect himself? But he was sure. He was safer this way. Just then a gust of wind hit him and he became aware of the emptiness of the beach, for one moment feeling the keenness of his isolation. He turned and made a move to run after her, but she'd already disappeared.

.......

All this he considered as he trudged again over the sands. The sky was grey and a group of ragged gulls hovered constantly around his head, looking like they planned to carry him away for their next meal. He turned and grimaced at the companions who insisted on tossing their hard-earned bread into the air for the screaming beasts. They paid him no heed though and he faced forward again with a sigh. Why were they here, did they have nothing better to do today than meander aimlessly on the beach? He pulled his hood up against the bits of spittle that blew in on the breeze and watched her walking ahead of him.

An arm drifted around her waist and his heart made a sick flutter as she slid her hand behind the man's back in return, her fingers slipping just under the fabric of his trousers. Such a casual gesture, but one that spoke volumes. As always she felt his gaze and turned her head, smiling when her eyes met his but never letting go of her prize. She turned back to her muscled companion, her look changing to a stupid little grin when he made some no doubt mindless comment. She got what she wanted in the end. All his doubt, his desire, all the times he kept silent when he wanted nothing more than to shout, it all came down to this. She could have held on a little longer, given him more time. But she didn't. He turned from the couple, looking back out to sea. There was no faith in womanhood.


	4. Viconia: Blood Like Water

Viconia flees for her life...and is owned by Bioware.

.........

"_Oh—!"_

A pained cry left Viconia's lips as she stumbled hard against a rock. By the burning sting she could tell her shin was bleeding, but a few more drops spilled would make little difference to her already tortured body. Gritting her teeth she forced herself off the ground. She must keep moving. She could not let weakness stop her. For days she'd been hiding, then running, defeating all that stood in her way. There was not far now to go, surely.

Running forwards with all the speed her frame could manage she once again cursed her weakness, although in truth it was not the fall that angered her, but the name that nearly escaped her lips. It was the name that shaped her world since birth, the name she used to shake her enemies and purify the temple—the only name. That name was all. In spite of everything her lip twisted in an amused sneer as she thought the name she nearly cried out for in weakness now hunted her for that very reason.

Turning round a tight corner Viconia stumbled to a stop. She rested her hands on her knees, gasping for breath in the cool underground air that vibrated with the innate energy of the Underdark. The tunnel split here. Which way? She'd found her feet on this trail almost by instinct, knowing it one of the lesser-travelled routes to the vast open cavern that was the surface world. But she hadn't been to the surface in over a century, and never on this path. She only had snippets of overheard conversation between fighters and slavers that the route even existed, and now that she was still, with her heart hammering in her chest and her body shaking from exertion she began to fear that she was lost in the maze of caverns.

_Weakness, fool...decide!_

Lolth proclaimed that one should chose with the left hand, so perhaps she should turn right? The absurdity of such a childish game to pick a path that might lead to life or death hit her and she let out a short, bitter laugh.

........

"You always were too quick to laugh."

Viconia whirled. Her pursuer was fleeter than she'd given her credit for; this one never faltered and seemed to know almost instinctively where her quarry was headed. Viconia sneered again though watching her step out of the shadows.

"There is much folly in the world, girl. You would be well to learn such a lesson yourself."

"The only folly here is you thinking you could outrun me! I run with the glory of Lolth, and yours are the burdened steps of a walking corpse!" her pursuer shouted in a voice meant to carry all the way back to Menzoberranzan.

Viconia laughed again. "Such boastful words. Though perhaps they would sound better delivered with slightly less...enthusiasm. The spider is quick and cool when it moves in to kill, it does not set the caverns echoing with brayed epithets."

"You would mock me?"

"You would challenge me?" Viconia demanded in return, her voice turning to ice.

"I would," the assassin said, though she sounded less sure than before. "You are nothing. You are a betrayer. The Spider Queen has taken back her gifts—why else would you be so bloodied? Your life's blood weeps from your wounds even now!"

She seemed to find her confidence again and spoke the words boldly, though not as boldly as her first declarations. Viconia looked at her, standing erect in the weird light of some phosphorescent mosses. The armour was new, likely a gift from the priestesses. A gift granted in a hurry, clearly, as despite its grandness the armour looked ill-fitted and awkward over her small frame.

"Where are your sisters, Iimaer? Do they not join you in this great hunt?" Viconia scoffed.

"They are at the temple, waiting for Lolth to grant me victory. Waiting to see if they are worthy of life!"

Viconia's eyes narrowed.

"And what do you think, my daughter?"

Iimaer tossed her head, sending her loose-fitting helmet wobbling over one eye. She yanked it off in irritation and sent it clattering to the stone with a gesture that filled Viconia with a strange pride.

"I think that if I cannot defeat such a low traitor then your seed has no worth, anyway!"

Her eyes glittered as she spoke though there was a kind of desperation in them.

"You are a fool, then. Why do you think the priestesses would send you, a girl who has not even yet taken the head of a surfacer, to kill a Priestess of Lolth? Even in her rage the Spider Queen enjoys her predator's games. You were sent to taunt me and nothing more."

"You are no longer among the favoured—and do not call me daughter! You are not my mother any more, you have no power. You are dead."

The girl stepped forward and brandished a heavy mace. Viconia just sighed in annoyance.

"If we were in the house I would whip you with a troll-lash for speaking to me in such a way. Is mindlessly repeating the words of the priestesses all you can do? Think, fool. It is your death they have ordained by sending you here. Even without the blessing of Lolth I can still snap your neck, and they know this well."

"Do not speak her holy name, traitor—"

"Are you truly my first-born?" Viconia interrupted acidly. "I do not recall talking so much before taking a life when I was your age. Your tutors have much to answer for. But I say again—think, if you are capable of forming thoughts in your addled brain. How am I a traitor? By refusing to stain Lolth's altar with the blood of the weak, the blood of a child? It is those who brought the babe for sacrifice that should be punished! It is the enemies of our house that took advantage of the situation, that spoiled our name with the Spider Queen. They deserve your wrath, not I."

........

"I—"

The outstretched mace trembled in the girl's hands, its weight clearly too much for her young muscles. She was strong, this girl, and it irritated Viconia that the priestesses would overburden her with a weapon she could still not hope to wield effectively. They were mocking her, mocking her very bloodline by making her seed appear weak.

Despite her occasional lack of clarity Iimaer was all one could hope for in an heir—strong, fast, agile, and ruthless in her domination of her younger sisters and cousins. Viconia had taken great care in selecting her first consort to ensure he did not lessen the strength of her own blood, and she'd been pleased with the results. A pity he proved insubordinate; she never did think the others were quite up to his quality.

"You are a traitor," the girl said finally, gathering herself up and boldly looking her mother in the eye. "Do you think the words of a few would be enough to sway the will of the Spider Queen? Lolth knows your heart, she knows it is not truly with her. That is why she took away her blessing, why our entire house has been punished because of your foolish blasphemy. That is why they sent me on the hunt after you escaped the city—do you think I don't understand? This isn't about the child. It is about you and your failure of heart! That is why we must prove our worth again if we are to live!"

Viconia scowled. "Foolish daughter. The Spider Queen has ever favoured the words of those who flatter her, not those who speak the truth! We should rally together and restore our house by force of arms!"

The girl bit her lip and shook her head. "You always did think of yourself as above the others. I admired you for that. But you do not understand. Our house—"

She paused and glanced at the cold stone floor of the cave. Viconia was still and said nothing. She was actually thankful for the girl's continued babbling as it gave her a much-needed chance to catch her breath. But she knew well enough that others would be fast on her heels, and unlike her dithering daughter they would not hesitate to end her life. She was surprised though when the girl slowly lowered her mace.

"Our house has been ruled by the weak," Iimaer continued. "How else could our enemies have taken advantage so easily? It shames me. It angers me! This was the message of Lolth. If I killed you, where would I go? There would still be no place for me. I would be sold as a slave or tossed into the pits, my inheritance would mean nothing. You...you are right, mother. We must fight!"

She dropped her mace and it rolled languidly down the cavern path behind her. A small smile crept out of Viconia's mouth as her wayward daughter kneeled submissively at her feet.

"We still have allies, daughter. All is not lost. Does not the Spider Queen favour the bold? House DeVir will rise on the broken bodies of those that sought to destroy us!"

She ran a hand over the girl's thick, pale hair and she rose to her feet. Perhaps the child was not as much a fool as her actions had led Viconia to believe.

"We will, indeed, mother," Iimaer replied, a corner of her mouth curling up. "By the glory of Lolth, we will tri—"

The girl stopped, perhaps aware that her mother was no longer looking at her, but beyond her into the cavern. She had no time to turn around. Iimaer's eyes opened wide in confusion and her lips parted, but if she made a noise it was drowned by the sound of her own mace striking the side of her head, caving in her skull with a dull, cracking thud.

..........

Her body slumped to the cave floor and Viconia absently wiped the spattered blood from her face, staring at the girl's murderer.

"Valas—! Why did you kill her? She hunted me no more."

"Not true, sister," the male said roughly.

He knelt over the girl's body and pulled something from her hand. Viconia yanked it away from him and grimaced.

"A poison dart. She tried to trick me...she _did_ trick me. Fooled by a child—perhaps I am deserving of the Spider Queen's wrath after all."

"You? One of the weak? Perish the thought, _sss_ister."

He laughed inappropriately as he always did, but something in his tone made Viconia look at him hard. He gave her one of his crooked smiles and her mouth dropped open in shock, her eyes grown wide with fear.

"Valas? You—"

"Cursed, Viconia. You are not the only one who has earned the kiss of Lolth."

Viconia fell back and stared at him. A long, jointed black point protruded from his waist, reaching slowly towards her. His skin looked leathery and when he smiled she shuddered at the sight of sharp fangs.

"A...drider?" she said, her voice distant and confused. "Why?"

He chuckled again, that hissing tone creeping up from deep within his throat.

"Because, dear sister...I have killed our mother!"

"_What?_"

"Did Iimaer not tell you? Our mother had ordered a contingent out to seek your head—and so valuable a trophy it was that she planned to lead it herself. I just thought, perhaps, that you might appreciate that such a party wasn't on your heels. So I killed them."

Viconia stared at her brother, completely lost for words. Despite his foolish manner Valas was a superior wizard; it did not surprise her that he could do such a thing, but...

_"You fool!" _she cried suddenly, striking him on the head. "You risked your own life for me, one who was already dead? Fool!"

He ducked submissively but she chastised him again, fighting angrily against her emotions. That foolish male—why? Now he was even more doomed than she.

"We are all dead, _sss_ister. Our house has fallen, there is nothing left. When you escaped your punishment our enemies took full advantage. Iimaer had no choice but to hunt you, hoping to win back Lolth's favour. But you, you can still escape."

"And go where?" Viconia cried, despair creeping up in her voice. "I will be forever hunted here, I will never find the surface. The priestesses will not let me escape. They are toying with me. And now you—"

She did not continue but struck him hard once more. Valas just laughed in that infuriating way.

"I will miss you, but you must run. The Spider Bitch revels in the slow pain of transformation but I will be a full drider very soon. Go now."

Viconia forced herself to draw a breath and nodded.

"You saved me. Shall I save you?"

She picked up the bloody mace and held it thoughtfully.

"Nay, sister," he smiled. "I still have much hunting to do before Lolth gets her prize."

Viconia looked once more into those foolish eyes that had been such an aggravation, yet so strangely uplifting in her youth. The Priestesses of Lolth were not gentle but what was left of a healer within saw clearly the pain and fear hiding behind those red orbs. She realised now that it had always been there. She considered raising the mace, but wiped it on her sleeve in a slow resignation. She opened her mouth to tell him to be strong, to fight on in the name of—but what was there? Nothing. There was nothing left. All was dust.

She turned and started out in a run, blindly heading up the passage to the left.

_"Viconia!"_

She stopped when he called out, looking at him expectantly. He kept his arms folded across his chest and she wondered what new folly he was playing when she noticed the black spider's leg pointing subtly towards the passage to the right. Her mouth opened, and he grinned. Viconia's eyes began to burn and she hurried down the right-side passage without a word.


	5. Safana: Business

A chapter from Safana's life, this story is a bit more adult in theme.

.........

Safana gritted her teeth and gave the tweezers a tug, yanking the colourless hair mercilessly out by its root. She regarded it for a moment but tossed it away with a sigh. That particular hair showed its face two years ago now and steadfastly refused to die. Always there, always growing back in that same spot over her right temple, standing out like a beacon in the night against her dark chestnut locks. Grimly she reminded herself that there would be more before long, and every evening she scanned her hair like a watchman, searching for any signs of the enemy. But giving her reflection a practiced smile she reminded herself that she was still lovelier than the noblewomen in the city, so why worry?

A delicate knock sounded on the chamber door and her serving girl entered carrying an armful of silk. Before she could speak her foot found the gown's hem and she stumbled forwards with a little cry.

"By Sharess!" Safana exclaimed, whirling from the glass. "Is it torn?"

"N-no, m'lady," the girl sputtered, examining the dress.

_M'lady_ _indeed_, Safana thought while rising to inspect the garment herself. Despite her best efforts she'd never managed to train the girl to address her in any way other than what one might expect for a overweight housewife. Where was the respect in this land? No bowing or scraping, just a quick bob and a folksy "yes, ma'am" from the rosy-cheeked child. By rights she should have sent her to the streets but somehow her hairdressing skills belied her clumsy manner. Safana knew the other women would gladly sink their claws into one another over her services and so she kept her out of spite.

"You are fortunate the dress is still whole, or you would be learning how Madame Lezule's dressmaking bills compare to your wages," Safana said, irritably wiping a small smudge from the fabric. "Now help me."

The girl flushed pink but helped her mistress into the gown. Examining her reflection in the long glass Safana's humour rose again. The pale, beaded silk flowed like water around her body, the colour accented by her tanned skin. Such a relief it was to finally discover a dressmaker in the city who understood the female form. But considering how pasty these women all were it was little surprise they chose to keep as much of their flesh as possible hidden behind cloth.

She seated herself at the dressing table and the girl began to perform the one task she excelled at. Safana watched her deft fingers plaiting and coiling as her mind ran again over her guest list.

"Has Lord Durganel arrived?" she asked somewhat anxiously.

"No, m'lady," the girl replied, her eyes on her task.

Safana sighed and proceeded to rim her eyes with kohl. He would be late. The one man she truly had an interest in developing a partnership with had quickly developed a reputation for putting ladies to shame with his fashionable lateness. His recent arrival in the city had caused an uproar amongst the higher classes, like a wolf leaping into a pen of willing sheep. Few recognised the young boy who'd left twenty years before to find his fortune after his parents' loss to plague, but the consensus was that he'd managed rather well. Remarkably handsome and with a charm that was rare in these lands he'd already found himself the darling of society.

Appealing though he was Safana ultimately cared little for his appearance or wit; handsome playthings were easy enough to acquire, but wealth as he was said to possess was rare. He knew well of his appeal though and played it for all it was worth. He was late only to put her off balance, trying to earn himself better terms. _More the fool_, Safana thought, smiling knowingly into her own eyes as the girl slipped a fresh white camellia into her hair.

.......

Sweeping out the door she paused to bring up her smile and tried to hide any traces of annoyance. Nothing must go wrong tonight. She spent every last possible coin on the affair, dealing in the end more on promises than currency. The finest bards, the most talented chefs, the most exquisite flower arrangers, all had been hired to entertain, impress, and, she hoped, intrigue. She knew it was more than she could hope to pay back but if she failed to reach a new deal it would all be meaningless, anyway.

She began to make her way to the stairs but her entrance was interrupted by the appearance of two women. The elder of the two clucked endlessly at the younger one, who pouted and scowled in return. Safana smiled and greeted them with politeness but a smirk crept out listening to their conversation; most mothers in that city would be chastising their daughters for wearing paint, not for putting it on incorrectly.

Watching the woman dabbing the girl's face with a handkerchief though somehow gave Safana a strange feeling. How old was that girl? Despite the paint and the lady's gown she fidgeted awkwardly under her mother's ministrations, and her soft face lacked any kind of angles. Safana shook off the thoughts with a toss of her head; the stress of the evening must be affecting her.

She made her required appearance at the top of the stairs, pausing just for a moment so that all might admire her gown. Though she tried to look blissfully nonchalant her eyes ran eagerly over the party below. The villa looked beautiful tonight. It was not large compared to those some possessed, but she had more understanding of true luxury than even the wealthiest in that place and she'd decorated in style and comfort.

Tonight the villa resembled a pasha's garden in Calimport, with the scent of numerous blooms wafting upwards in a rich perfume. Slow, pulsing music mingled with the murmurs and laughter of the guests and the delicate glow from multi-coloured glass lanterns created a warm light. Raising her head she descended the stairs and into a nobleman's waiting clutches.

"My dear Safana, your radiance turns these exotic blooms into common posies," he said, gallantly taking up her hand in a kiss.

"Lord Vollen, you flatter me," she replied, trying to smile while her eyes flitted around the room.

"Ah, your beauty does not need flattery. Any poetic thing that I could imagine would pale by result. You would make a rose smell foul. You are as a summer's day...hot, and sweet," the man continued, clearly impressed by his own labours.

_Then spare yourself the effort of thinking of them_, Safana thought, but she gave the man a demure nod in return. Was there any worse combination than these dull-eyed nobles and poetry? Their souls lacked the fire to understand such words of the heart.

"I had hoped, perhaps, that you had given some thought to my proposal?" he continued, the preliminaries thankfully over.

"Dear Vollen, the night is still young! It is too early to discuss business," she laughed. "There will be much time later to withdraw and speak of the finer points, yes?"

She smiled but the man frowned. Safana managed to pull away into the crowd, assuring him happily that they would speak later. In reality she had little interest in his partnership; something in that man's manner irritated her in a way she couldn't describe. Perhaps it was his feeble attempts at intellectualism or his absurd hats, but it mattered not. She supposed she shouldn't complain; Vollen was of one of the most respected families in the land and ties to him could be very beneficial to her interests. But she knew that he maintained other partnerships, and she'd heard rumours that his pinched-faced wife was growing increasingly concerned about where her husband spent his coin.

........

As she worked her way around the gay, vibrant party it occurred to her how familiar, yet alien this new world was. She'd been raised in a pampered luxury that was considered almost vulgar in the prim northern countries, her every want catered to by a clap of her hands. Never though did she think of its cost, not in the backs that broke to fulfil her petty wishes, but in her own freedom.

Marriage was the most important alliance either man or woman would ever make, and as a girl she dreamed of princes and merchant lords beating their way to her step, falling over themselves to impress her father with their wealth and passion. But when the time came she found his choice considerably less than inspiring. The man was elderly and dull, hardly the sort a young girl sees in her sleep.

But she never cried or cajoled her father as she'd always done to get her way. It was business, he said, and she understood. An alliance with him would bring much to the family coffers. And seeing her husband's bright eyes as he regarded her during their wedding feast she felt with certainty that she'd be able to rule her new home as easily as she had her old.

_Home._ A word that she rarely considered before she left it behind. Perhaps it was true that people only valued things when someone tried to wrench them from their grasp. Her eyes wandered away from the noble she bantered with and looked past the people to the room itself. She did love it in the quiet afternoons, reading on a chaise lounge while sunlight from the glass skylights warmed her like a lover's embrace. Though she'd spent years in the north it was rare that she didn't feel chilly away from sun or fire. She lightly caressed a bronze statue of two entwined lovers and her face fell, her smile turning cool as the metal under her touch. The puzzled noble called her name and she forced herself to snap back to the business at hand.

She heard a commotion in the foyer and looked up with sudden hope, but her face turned sour again when a few young nobles burst shouting and singing into the room, buoyed by drink and an apparent win at the gaming tables. She excused herself from the man and went to survey the scene with false disinterest. Why couldn't those fools go to the festhall instead of slopping wine over her fine woven rugs? Were they anyone else Safana would have the guards turn them out on the spot, but one of the young men was the son of an important guest and she couldn't risk angering him. The lack of control over her own home irritated her more than usual and she turned without a word. Hopefully his father would put him straight, she thought while trying to ignore the distinctive sound of shattering crystal.

......

The gilded clock on the mantle struck twice. Where was he? She began to think that Durganel had decided to shun her after all. Looking over the party that had grown more raucous Safana bit her lip and admitted to herself that all this had truly been for him. She should have known better. His business would be lucrative but it wasn't worth ignoring other potential partners as she'd been doing all evening.

Grimly though Safana realised that his behaviour was her own fault. In their previous meetings she felt that her smiles at him had been a little too _real_. There was something warmly familiar about him, and the keen man didn't fail to notice her interest. It was folly to show her hand so early in the game; it violated every last business principle. How could she ever expect to negotiate if she let that advantage slip? It was a mistake she didn't intent to make again.

Safana's mood turned even more sour when she saw a lady gliding up to her, languid as a cat. Soft blonde ringlets cascaded from a jewelled headband and she swayed her impossibly tiny waist with precision. Why these women found torturing their bodies into corsets desirable was never something she understood, but dutifully she smiled and took the woman's hands in hers.

"Safana darling, you cannot know what a relief it is to see you looking so well. Some of these gossips said that you would never recover from the _tragedy_, but I said that your race doesn't possess fire in your veins for nothing. You would persevere, I was certain."

"Thank you, Mrs Rose," Safana replied, catching a whiff of the woman's self-named perfume as she leaned in to kiss the air near her cheek. "I am very glad to have your support."

Support, indeed, she thought—like building a palace on a foundation of straw.

"I'm sure, but I hear mine isn't quite what you need," the woman said in a low purr, linking her arm with Safana's and leading her away. "Some dreadful women were saying that the _bailiffs_ had paid you a visit the other day. Of course I didn't believe a word of it—I'm certain that Lord Caberwen would've arranged for you to receive your share of the investment in the unfortunate event of his death. Why, a mere glance at this wonderful affair tells me that you've done quite nicely from the sad circumstances. Although I did hear that his widow is putting their country estate on the market, can you believe? It's been in his family for five generations. But then I don't think she ever much cared for that drear old manor. By the by, have you heard that Mrs Cicely lost an absolute _fortune_ in that dreadful Maztica speculation? I did warn her that the company wasn't sound, but she simply wouldn't hear a word—"

Safana stiffened at the woman's pointed ramblings. If she knew about Cicely's loss then she must know of others, as well.

"And did you hear that fat old Baron Meyland actually called Durganel out on a duel? I'm thankful our lord went easy on him, though I'm not sure of the Baroness' views on the subject," Mrs Rose laughed. "She is still fairly young, after all. I thought perhaps the gentleman might be in attendance tonight, but there _are_ other parties, I suppose. Although Durganel did say that he was familiar with you from the south. Imagine that—knowing our exotic lady of mystery!"

Safana started. Durganel knew her? No one in this city knew her, and she would have remembered meeting him. The idea made a queer feeling rise in her stomach and she abruptly disentangled herself from the woman's clutches.

"Would you kindly excuse me?"

Mrs Rose raised an eyebrow. _"Hm?_ Of course, my dear. The hostess' work is never done, I know. Although perhaps—_you might see to your hair."_

_........_

Safana regarded the woman's whisper with suspicion but a quick glance in a mirror didn't reassure. She slipped upstairs, dismissing her servant girl and attended to her locks herself. Away from the buzz of the party Safana's thoughts took their own course again. Her husband had retreated into his ledgers soon after their marriage, leaving her in the none-too-tender hands of his other wives who despised her presence. They ruled every aspect of her life, declaring what she could wear, who she could see, even what time she rose in the morning. Safana thought with spite that they even decreed when the old man could visit her chamber. Not that she minded; it was fun enough at first, but she quickly grew bored of his exertions.

She set down the hairbrush and stared at her reflection. The glass had a greenish light in the dim chamber, and the longer she stared the less her features made any sense. The wide almond eyes, the full lips, the fine small nose, they were still there but they no longer seemed to relate to one another. They twisted in her sight and for one horrible moment, she was ugly. She started, screwing her eyes up tight against the apparition. When she opened them her features seemed to realign, but they somehow kept that aspect of a plate that had been smashed and mended, never to be right again.

Why would these thoughts not leave her be? She wasn't a child under someone's thumb any longer. She left that behind. Eventually she could bear no more of her life in Calimport and slipped into the night, hiding aboard a ship heading far away. A dangerous move, but she had always been bold. Too bold, her father's other wives had said. But they were simply jealous that her mother had been his favoured wife, and Safana his most treasured daughter.

_Father._ Though it had been years since she left his face was clear as if he stood before her, and Safana winced as the pain of guilt crept over her again. It was her one regret in fleeing her husband—the shame it would bring on her father. In her younger years she spent many a boring caravan trip or sea voyage imagining herself finding a fortune somehow and returning home to his accolades. But she could never return home, even with all the gold in the Realms in her pockets. Even at her young age she knew that she could never come back; it was as much as her life was worth to return. She took a new name, the name of her favourite storybook heroine—Safana_._ It was a beautiful name, she thought, one that spoke of flowers and romance. Could she ever have been so naive?

She looked back into the glass with a sigh. The kohl had smudged and left unappealing circles under her eyes. Wiping them away she thought she would trade everything for a chance to crawl into bed and sleep till the sun was high. How many years now since she first left her home? She'd grown so weary of constantly moving from city to city, from bed to bed, dungeon to stinking dungeon hunting a fortune that never seemed to materialise. Although she'd saved coin enough at various points to live in a more comfortable fashion than the patrons of the seedy taverns and filthy streets where her business often took her she always longed for the luxury of her childhood. Worse still she felt a resentment within, a spiteful anger that it had been wrongly taken from her. It was true she abandoned it, but what choice did she have?

A sudden impulse took her and she went to the mantelpiece where a wooden panel popped aside at her light touch. She drew out a small, heavy wooden box and the first true smile of the night spread softly over her face as she regarded the contents.

_The moon and stars._ Her departed mother's necklace, the one thing she'd taken from her former life. Even in the dim light the large blue diamond sparkled softly, the surrounding opals and white diamonds that circled the jewel echoing its brilliance. The catty Mrs Rose did not even seem to guess that the diamonds Safana wore that night were paste; her creditors had made off with all her real stones. All except for this. Through the mud and the nights in dingy inns she'd kept it safe, kept it secret, rarely even wearing it lest someone recognise the family gem for what it was. She always thought she would part with her own soul sooner than the gem that once circled her mother's graceful neck, but now...

.......

Instinctively she clapped the box shut and replaced the panel hearing the light sound of the chamber door's click. She turned and the second true smile of the night appeared slowly on her face.

"I beg your pardon, but when I didn't see you downstairs I started to worry that someone else had gotten in ahead of me."

"Then you should be more prompt. A lady cannot be expected to be kept waiting forever," Safana murmured in reply to the nobleman who stepped into the room.

"I take it that means you were waiting?"

Lord Durganel gave her a crooked smile and helped himself to a glass of port from her bedside table. Safana flushed in irritation.

"Your offer was...a generous one, my lord. It was worthy of a small amount of extra consideration."

She turned her back on him, pretending to occupy herself with the bottles on her dressing table.

"Quite," he replied. "I'd rarely consider putting forth one like that, but you are an exceptional case."

She looked back at him. He sat down casually and gazed at her with that smile, but his eyes had the air of one sizing up a horse or other beast of burden.

"Still, you couldn't expect me to sign up to a long-term investment without seeing the goods first. You look alright in a dress but you're not exactly a fresh young thing, are you? I don't want to end up with mutton when I've paid for lamb. Show me."

Durganel laughed slightly at her obviously surpressed anger. His attractive face seemed to distort as Safana's did before the glass, becoming something ugly and common. Her first impulse was to slap him but she swallowed her irritation and slowly reached a hand up towards her laces.

"No, not here," he said, interrupting her. "Go change in the other room. I like to keep some of the mystery."

Safana fought hard against the urge to lash out at him; despite her triumph the game had no appeal tonight. She excused herself to her dressing chamber and traded her dress for a silken robe. In her mood she kept him waiting long as she could—she never could bear when these barbarians treated her like one of their common women. Eventually she slipped out, anticipating his eyes, but she stopped on the carpet. Durganel's chair was empty, the glass of port drained at the side. She looked around in confusion and a slight panic rose, but it burst entirely when her eyes rested on the mantle.

The panel was removed and placed open so she would be certain to see. Dashing forward she yanked open the box and her worst fears were realised. Inside was a note, and nothing more. She grabbed it up and read the rapid scrawl with a shaking hand.

_"Well, well, my tricky little vixen. You can't imagine my surprise and pleasure when I arrived here to milk these poor sops and found you instead. You must be slowing down—it's a disappointment to see the mighty Safana masquerading as one of these ridiculous little pets. Don't wrack your brain trying to place me, we've never met. But I know you quite well. You may remember some years ago, a hapless fellow by the name of Termian Tandovar? He fell in love with you and got himself killed trying to earn coin for one of your little escapades. As you may guess, he was my brother. Now, I have little intention of trying to claim a moral high ground with you. Business is business—I understand, and I hardly could be called an angel myself. Is it worth mentioning the real Lord Durganel fell while wandering lost in some desert? Signet rings and a few family letters can take you far with the unimaginative; people always see what they want to see._

_But my poor brother's hopeless face has ever haunted me, and I swore should we ever meet I would take his revenge. He told me of your necklace and as it seems to be the one thing in this world your cold heart places value on I decided to relieve you of its weight. How kind of you to finally show me its hiding place! Just in time too, as some of these nobles are becoming suspicious, and it is best if I moved on. I wouldn't bother trying to find me—I have enough dirt on you to get you hanged in four countries, and if anything unfortunate ever occurs I've seen to it that the proper authorities will be informed. I hope your little life here brings you continued bliss, although from what I've heard that isn't likely. All the better! Farewell, my dear, and thank you for that exquisite port._

_--Berian Tandovar"_

As Safana's eyes read the last line the paper burst into flames in her hands, vaporising into mist. She let out a piercing wail that penetrated the chamber door, making even the drunken guests downstairs look up in wonder for a moment before returning to their revelry.


	6. Children

I've been wanting to update this collection for awhile, but you know how things go. This one is a slightly different take on the 'origin' story. Expect some violent imagery.

............

_Destroy the temple!_

I heard the call echo through those chambers. The bodies of women and children lined the halls in our wake, but none of the dark pools that spread outwards could be called innocent. Evil pulsated from every stone in that place; were I blind and numb I would still know the moment my feet passed the threshold. _Death. Murder. _The walls screamed for it, and their plea was answered in generous terms.

But not all was death—a few of my Harper kindred managed to steal babes from their mothers' arms before they could fulfil their father's desire. I have never considered myself a faint-hearted man, but the sight of a mother screaming for mercy for only to earn herself an extra moment to wring her own child's neck is not something that I will easily forget. It defied every natural law, but perhaps the nature it called upon was not so different than the one we believe we know.

We were ordered to save as many children as we could. I did not understand why—these were children of prophecy, their future as determined as if it had been carved in stone. And in a way it was; the words of Alaundo are inerrant. The Children shall bring death in their wake. Some argued that it was necessary that they live in order to stop this from coming to pass, but how could they hope to succeed? They shall all die, whether through a sacrificial blade or the prosaic tooth of time. Their essence shall rejoin their father. The Lord of Murder shall be reborn—it is inevitable as the rising sun.

......

A number of us stayed behind after the rescuers had fled to ensure that no foul priestess or servant of the dark one escaped with their life. I admit I did not heed my orders; the soft logic of the Harpers had failed to impress me for some time. I passed through the halls alone, guarded only by my magic, and where I heard the frightened wails of a child I silenced them. I felt no guilt. These were children of the abyss, their very existence an abomination. I was certain of this. But then, something occurred to change my mind.

I pursued some snivelling servant into a chamber. If not for all I had seen that day the horror of that room might have given me pause; a cold altar stood in the centre, fresh blood dripping down its side like a scene from an abattoir. The scent of it filled the air and the bodies of murdered children and priestesses surrounded the vile plinth, their last duty to their evil god performed.

The man pleaded for his life like an old woman, crawling over the bodies to pull himself away from me. Disgusted by the man I raised my hands—but too late I realised it was a ruse. When he had pulled far enough back he drew a wand and a blast of energy hit me, driving me hard against the stone wall. My consciousness drifted but thankfully my protections triggered and hammered the man with a spell. He cried out in pain and the wand slipped from his grasp and went sliding away across the floor.

We both stared at it in a trance, each of us lying dazed from the other's strike. I knew I needed to rise, I needed to finish the man before he could rally some other assault, but then—something moved.

A child had been lying in the dead arms of a woman. I had thought him dead as well but now he rose up from her grasp, sleepy-faced and mellow as a boy wakening in his gentle mother's lap after a picnic in the sun. His little lad's tunic was stained with the marks of violence but it troubled him not. He rubbed his eyes, and spying the object of our interest he toddled towards it and grasped the wand in his hand.

The little boy thought he had found quite a prize, and held the wand high with a smile and a laugh. My heart jumped; such weapons were triggered at will and there was nothing stopping him using it against either of us. But if there was violence in the boy's heart he kept it hidden. Rather he examined the wand keenly, looking it over in that curious way children do. I knew I could not rely on the devil-spawn's charity though so I raised a hand to strike the boy down, but suddenly the servant called out to him.

"Boy," he rasped. "You know your father's bidding. Destroy your enemy. Point the wand and fulfil his commandment!"

The boy looked at the man, cocking his head at the request. The import seemed to be beyond his comprehension for he merely let out a childish laugh.

"Do it, boy!" the man commanded. "Strike your enemy!"

The child just laughed again, amused by the strange game. He raised the wand, holding it in mid-air, his eyes flitting between the pair of us as he weighed the choice in his mind. His small mouth twisted in happiness. My heart leaped but before I could act he let out a cry, and pointed the weapon directly at his father's servant. Lacking my protections the wand took full effect. The man's flesh burst into blue-tinged flames, cooking him down to the bone before a scream could even escape his lips.

......

The lad stuck his little fingers into his mouth and stared in awe at the remains. No tears came into his eyes, nor any sign of joy. Simply—surprise. His fingers still stuck in his mouth he turned and looked at me. I had my chance to act, but I do not know what stayed my hand. Perhaps the blow had softened me in some way. Rather than casting a spell I spoke.

"Give me the wand, child."

He still stared, weighing the command of a stranger.

"Give me the wand."

He held out the weapon, pointing it at me with a quizzical look on his face. I tensed, but spoke the command again. Slowly the child lowered the wand, not breaking his gaze from mine. He came to me in quiet steps and gingerly placed the wand in my outstretched palm.

I looked then into his face, truly regarding a Spawn for the first time. He seemed so—childlike. An absurd thing to say, and I felt it even then. I expected a demon with glowing eyes, not the soft orbs that regarded me from the round babe's face. How like a child that one might see on any street, on any farm...I thought there must be a mistake, that some ordinary boy had been mixed in with the Children. But I knew what he was. And it was then my revelation came.

_Strike your enemy,_ the man had said. But he had struck at his father's servant, not at me. I did not think for a moment he anticipated the result but even in his child's game his choice was plain. Of course the irony in the man's words was obvious; in truth we were both his enemy. We both planned to end his life. Why did he choose that man, not I? Was it some lingering memory of cruelty at his hand? Did he naturally point at the man he knew rather than a stranger? The lad was young, very young, barely old enough to walk. Perhaps I read too much into the simple act of a child, but I sensed something...more. Here was no mindless servant of Bhaal. The child had free will. And in some subconscious way he had chosen me as his protector.

The lad had been regarding me while I worked this over in my mind, but he grew tired of the stranger and returned to his mother's side. He plopped himself down on her wearily with a sigh, his small hands clinging to her bloody robe. With a groan I rose up and looked at her face.

Even in death it bore such cruelty that I wondered how this woman had ever been a mother. No compassion was hiding in those dead eyes, no trace of tenderness could be found in her twisted mouth. A beauty, yes, but cold as iron. Her hands were frozen in such a way that suggested she'd been clinging to something when she fell, most likely the child that now cuddled her lifeless frame.

How could that boy hold for her affection? I could scarce imagine her ever expressing to him a mother's kind touch. Had he ever known love? The sight of the poor orphaned child struck at me, further cracking the ice within my own cool heart. He was just a boy, after all.

I reached for the lad to pull him away from his mother. He let out a shrill scream and refused to let go of her robes. We struggled but I managed to free him. He wrapped himself around my neck as I carried him away, blubbering softly to himself over his loss. I wrapped my arms around his warm little frame in turn and bore him from the darkness, into the light of the fading sun.

........

I found the Harpers at our meeting point some distance from the dark temple. The night drew around us but I found the spot easily from the sounds of children's wails. The sight of a group of battle-hardened warriors and mages gathered around a fire, tending to the cries of fussing babes nearly brought me to chuckle. Men and women more suited to cutting down slavers now playing nursemaid with varying degrees of success.

Despite this I somehow felt self-conscious about my charge and seated myself some ways from the others. A few of the older children played together near the fire but my lad stayed near me, watching them with curious eyes. He did not seem interested in play with his fellows. It somehow occurred to me he might be hungry so I offered the lad some food from my own pouch. He took the offered gift and I felt a strange pleasure in watching him eat, like one might have when a wild animal takes food from one's hand.

He took an interest in me as well and watched me as he ate. Now that my nerves had calmed it struck me how handsome a lad he was. His eyes were a rare shade of green, like the new leaves of spring. They were almost hypnotic, and perhaps the only true hint that his heritage was anything other than human. In every other respect he seemed a normal boy. He suddenly grinned at me through his mouthful of bread and I found myself smiling in return.

One of my brethren, an aged mage, came and sat near the pair of us. For all the years I had known that man little seemed more out of place with his character than the sight of him holding a young boy to his chest.

"You rescued a child?" he spoke quietly.

"As did you," I replied, feeling somewhat defensive.

"Yes, I...pulled him from an altar, from underneath the very knife of his dam. They are but children, are they not? They do not deserve such a fate."

He spoke hesitantly, as if trying to convince himself of the words. He was an academic amongst us—in truth, he had been the one who researched the prophecies so thoroughly for the Harpers. He knew better than most of their fate, and yet he seemed plagued by the same unexpected uncertainty as I.

"One child," he continued, gazing at the boy that slept in his arms. "Only one."

"And yet there were many," I replied.

"So many," he answered.

Oddly I noticed that my lad was watching him, with a different expression than which he regarded me. Almost as though he recognised the man. But my fellow Harper paid him no mind, instead running a rough old finger over the delicate cheek of the boy he held, seeing little else in the world. The child yawned and stretched but merely turned his head aside and returned to that blissful, secure sleep of infancy.

"What becomes of them now?" I asked.

"It is not for us to decide," he replied, suddenly regaining some of his old manner.

Just then our commander called us all for a meeting. My lad looked at me, but although no noise left his lips I almost fancied I could hear his thoughts.

...........

The Harpers themselves were in disagreement with what to do with the children. Some thought they should be raised together, others separately. Some thought they should be sent with ordinary families to live, others thought they should be imprisoned forever. In the end the children were divided, intended to live with Harpers who would masquerade as ordinary civilians. They wanted my boy. But I had rescued him, he was mine.

My reaction baffled me more than I can say. I never had a son, my work ever kept me from taking a wife. But when he placed his small hand in mine I felt a certain warmth, the warmth of the fatherhood I never knew I had missed. He had a sort of—keenness about him that belied his tender age. I even thought of a name, though I did not speak it then. I called him Ronen. And watching his almost pleading eyes I knew I could not let him go.

I took him in the night and we fled in secret. Oh, they might have found us, but in truth I think they were pleased one of the Spawn had departed. Together we travelled back to the nation of my birth. It was a long, long journey. The boy spoke almost none at first though I knew him capable of speech. Instead, he—watched. He observed everything, no matter how minute. A curious habit for a child, I confess. I began to show him books to pass the time. He did not know the letters but he took to it immediately and soon read aloud with me. I knew little of children but it seemed a remarkable feat, and I felt as much pride as if he were truly my son.

But now at last we are home. I feel such hope now, such a natural joy that has been long lost from my life. Ronen has taken to me as much as I have to him, and I have little doubt he will grow to call me father. I shall teach him all I know, and perhaps one day I might share with him the truth of his heritage. With that black temple so far behind us I cannot see it now—how can this bright little lad be a devil-spawn? He runs, he laughs, he plays...he is a child. An extraordinary one perhaps, but still just a boy.

All fathers however need a trade to bring in coin and I find myself little different. A wealthy merchant in the city has offered me a position, and though the man is reputed to be something of a brute I cannot think how that would affect us. His wife however is a rare treasure, and it strikes me as another of the mysteries of this world how so delicate a creature was intended to be his lady. I should like nothing more than to show her my boy, especially as it seems they have no children of their own. I know she would delight in him as much as I.

As ever Ronen seems to know that I am thinking of him, and he is smiling at me even as I write. He is sitting on the bed, playing with a bird's feather. Where did he get that, I wonder? No matter. He is holding it up for me now. Ah, my lad—you have good cause to smile, for your future is bright.

_W.P.— 1348_


End file.
